


The Joys of Domesticity or: 5 times Q ruined the kitchen (+1 time they ruined it together)

by releasetheglitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 5 + 1, Domestic, Don't try this at home kids, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, blatant abuse of kitchenware, unsafe cooking practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q, through judicious amounts of culinary incompetence, convinces Bond of the joys of domesticity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joys of Domesticity or: 5 times Q ruined the kitchen (+1 time they ruined it together)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beginte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/gifts).



> For beginte, the best muse anyone could ask for (and a hella brilliant author in her own right!) Inspired by many (borderline-cracky) conversations about how much of a monster Q would be in the kitchen :D

Domesticity, James had always maintained, was the slowest form of torture. Quibbling over detergent brands, filling income tax returns, popping over to the neighbours’ for a spot of tea—it was all so very dreary. He dreaded the day he’d turn forty-five and retire from fieldwork like a condemned man would dread the executioner’s axe. And on his darker nights, when long-dead ghosts kissed scotch-flavoured bruises over his knuckles, well, nights like those, he thought he’d sooner put a bullet in his own head than make it out alive.

That, of course, was before he had moved in with Q.

Not because living together made the monotony of domesticity any easier to bear—Q still wouldn’t let him come along on the weekly Tesco trips, even though Bond will swear to his grave that the self-serve kiosk exploded on its own—but living with a verifiable genius came with its own unique set of troubles. Somehow, he never got antsy. Not even when Q got it in his head to repaint the entire flat and paint chips littered every surface for weeks.

(He’d grown bored of that project before it was completed, but the patches of royal purple paint on the bedroom ceiling were oddly charming, so Bond didn’t mind.)

Yes, Q was a strange one. And after more than a year of cohabitation, not much surprised him anymore. However, every so often…

Bond blinked again, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn’t suffering some form of hallucination.

No, no mistake. That was indeed the carcass of a hollowed-out computer tower in the bottom shelf of the fridge. _HP Pavilion,_ his mind supplied on auto-pilot, trained to sift out information no matter how bizarre the situation.

Pulling out his phone, he shot off a quick message to Q. _You said the leftovers were in the bottom shelf?_

Hardly a minute later, Q’s reply flashed across the screen.

_yes_

_r u going senile in ur old age :)_

Bond reached out, tapping one fingernail on top of the glossy plastic. Just as he’d suspected, this was definitely not spaghetti bolognese.

He snapped a picture and sent it off to Q.

The reply came quickly. Too quickly, since Q was supposed to be in a boardroom meeting. Bond had assumed he’d be too busy playing candy crush on his phone to pay him any attention. _look inside, bond. honestly what kind of agent r u??_

An agent who was getting too old for this kind of shit, Bond mused darkly, dragging out the mess of plastic with no small amount of dread, and— yep, there it was. Splattered across the bottom of the PC tower like the brains of that arms dealer Bond had dispatched in Armenia. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so hungry anymore.

 _why._ He demanded, shaking his head in horror as he slammed the fridge door shut.

_sry used all the plates 2 grow clostritium botulinum cultures ;P_

Bond huffed. Trust Q to type out “clostritium botulinum” and not “to”. At least he hadn't actually stored bacteria cultures in the fridge again—Bond would forever lament the loss of the salmonella-contaminated pâté. Good food didn't deserve such an ignominious death.

Well, no harm done. He checked the clock: two hours before Q got home. He would order a pizza instead, and that would be yet another item added to the long list of “things that DO NOT belong in the fridge, Q, that means you.”

 

***

 

The thing was, Q had no cooking skills to speak of.

Oh, sure, he was more than adept at chemistry. In particular the synthesis of various neurotoxins—actually, come to think of it, that didn’t speak much to his ability to produce an edible meal. And he could do things with a knife that made Bond’s trousers tighten. But when it came to honest, wholesome cooking…

Q could heat up soup in the microwave. Maybe.

Really, sometimes Bond wondered how Q had managed to survive before he came along. When Q became engrossed in a coding project, he ate on autopilot. Mugs of tea placed near his non-dominant hand would be sipped as the other hand typed. Small, bite-sized snacks would be vacuumed up absentmindedly, along with any other small objects within hand’s reach. Q’s employees had to move small bolts and erasers out of the way when he was lost in his work, lest they fell prey to Q’s inattentive grasp.

“Really, Bond,” Q rolled his eyes, attempting to extricate himself from his lap. “I’m sure I can manage a bowl of tinned soup."

Considering how Q had once managed to heat a pizza pocket so that it was charred on the outside and frozen solid on the inside, Bond wasn’t wholly convinced. Still, there wasn’t a whole lot of damage Q could do with something that at least didn’t emit fire.

"Yes, you're very clever," he agreed, biting back a smile as he dodged neatly out of the way of Q's elbows. Nights in at home had become increasingly common lately, and Bond found himself…looking forward to them. He shouldn’t admit that, because he was James Bond and he didn’t do domestic, but between Q’s heap of lanky limbs and the way he always smelled like spiced cider and bergamot, it was impossible not to look forward to cuddling with him. If Alec and Eve found out about this, they’d laugh themselves silly about how Bond was going soft in his old age.

“Would you like cream of mushroom or chicken noodle?” Q called, interrupting his thoughts. Bond smiled privately to himself.

“Whatever you prefer,” he called back, knowing that having Q feed him soup from his lap was his favourite part. There wasn’t any need to be anxious at the thought of Q fiddling around in the kitchen by himself. Of course not. After all, Q could heat soup in a microwave, right? Just put the bowl in and set the timer…

Right on cue, a loud _boom_ sounded from the direction of the kitchen. Bond leapt up, one hand already reaching for the nonexistent gun at his back even as his mind said _shh, it’s just Q. He does this._ Still, he braced himself as he poked his head around the corner, fully expecting to find half the wall missing.

It wasn’t that drastic. The microwaved seemed to have turned itself into a set of lego, and there was soup splattered all over Q’s cardigan, but he didn’t seem injured. He stared at Q, raising an eyebrow when the man began to splutter.

“It’s _not_ my fault,” Q insisted. “Someone—probably double-oh six, because you know how he loves to ruin lives—left metal bits in the bowl. I didn’t see them. You should call up Alec and question him for attempted arson.”

Bond peeked inside the remnants of the bowl. Sure enough, there were several pieces of twisted up, blackened pieces of metal inside. “These look like your soldering bits, love,” he said, keeping his tone mild.

Q blushed, honest to god blushed, and that adorable sight took Bond’s mind off the carcass of his microwave. “It’s not—I am being _framed_ ,” he insisted, continuing to rant even when Bond took a washcloth and began to clean chicken and mushroom bits off his cardigan.

“It’s not coming off,” said Bond, finally. “We’ll have to toss it in the wash.”

“You mean I’ll have to strip off?” Q countered.

Bond shrugged, giving Q’s chest a lascivious once-over that left no doubt as to what his intentions were. “No way around it.”

Q rolled his eyes, but simply looked relieved that Bond wasn’t questioning him any longer. “Well, if you insist...”

 

***

 

When he first woke up, Bond’s first thought was that someone was employing auditory torture on him.

_Scritch. Scritch._

God, what was that noise? One hand snuck under his pillow, reaching for the pistol he tucked under there in case of break-ins. Although his eyes remained closed, a humourless smirk played on his face. If these were petty thieves, they chose the wrong flat to break into.

Something felt wrong, however. A subtle difference in the way the mattress dipped. An unfamiliar scent in the air. His eyes slid open, just a fraction.

Q wasn’t there.

After a brief hesitation, Bond slid the gun back into place and sighed.

Dammit. Q.

Opening the bedroom door, his suspicions were confirmed by the smell of something burning. Bond swore and quickened his pace. For all he knew, Q could’ve burned the kitchen down while he slept. Or worse, injured himself somehow. Bond thought about his _Santoku_ knives in Q’s sleepy-clumsy fingers and nearly gagged.

He raced to the kitchen and stopped in the entryway, taking in the damage. Q didn’t seem to be hurt, much to his relief. The pan, on the other hand…

"Q, darling?" Bond intoned carefully, mindful of the tiny wobble in his voice.

"Mmrph?" And oh, bugger. Q was draped in Bond's dress shirt, first four buttons popped open so Bond could see every one of the love bites he'd left on the young man last night. Bond could physically feel the fight draining out of him, leaving only despondency and a vague sort of horrified fondness.

"You—you're not using a plate."

Q glanced down at his panful of scrambled eggs. "Err, no. I'm not."

"Ah." Bond had been tortured by countless organisations, had every body part, from the tips of his toes to the hairs in his nostrils—to be fair, that was the man's first go at torturing someone and he'd done a fair job in the end—threatened. But the sound of the fork scraping against the bottom of his Teflon-coated _not to be scraped_ pan nearly brought him to his knees, ready to beg for mercy.

Maybe this was retribution—Bond had just come back from Malta with his earpiece melded to the burning remains of his gun, and Q had given him that wounded look that reminded Bond of a drowned kitten. But for god's sake, his pan? Was there no integrity in the world?

"S'good," Q continued, offering the pan full of yellow goop to him with a sleepy smile. "Want some?"

Bond looked at the erratically seasoned mess, at the unmixed clumps of pepper and salt, the runny yellow yolk, and thought he'd never seen a less appetising meal in his life. And yes, that was counting the time he'd come home to see Q munching on a Sriracha sandwich because he'd been too lazy to run to the corner store. Still, Q looked so adorable standing there, in Bond’s shirt and nothing else. His dimpled knees poked out from under the folds of the shirt, adorably rosy and dinky. His toes were scrunched in on themselves on the cold tiles, and Bond had the absurd notion to kiss them until they unfolded again.

If anyone knew just how gone he was for Q, he was screwed. Truly and royally screwed. But then again, that was a problem for another day. For now, Q was still brandishing his pan like he was a Masterchef winner and it was filled with lobster panna cotta, or something equally accolade-worthy. So Bond simply smiled at him and took a forkful (making sure none of the metal touched his pan, ta very much,) and popped it into his mouth the way he would with cold medicine.

“Do you like it?” Q asked hopefully.

“Like” was perhaps too strong of a term. “Tolerated” was closer to the truth. “I can swallow this without _needing_ to throw up” was even closer. Still, because Bond did love Q despite his misadventures in the kitchen, he nodded. “Tastes wonderful, love.”

Rubbery, charred eggs were a small price to pay for the way Q’s entire body seemed to light up at that. “Told you there were some things I could cook,” he crowed, diving in for another forkful. It took everything in Bond not to wrestle the fork from his hands when he heard the _scritch, scritch_ again.

“There’s an awful lot stuck to the bottom,” he said, as diplomatic as he could.

Q tilted his head and squinted at the layer of brown crust coating the bottom of the pan. “Not to worry, I’ll clean it later,” he said. “A good scrub with the metal scouring pads will have it good as new. I _have_ done this before, you know?”

_Metal scouring pads._

Bond’s knees buckled.

 

***

 

“You are an _adult,_ ” Bond raged. “You are a thirty-four year old man and the leader of one of the largest departments in foreign Intelligence. There is _absolutely no reason why this should have happened again._ ”

Q opened his mouth, but a cloud of white powder flew in, and he closed it again, coughing.

“—No reason,” Bond continued, really getting into his rant now. “For you to have done this _yet again_ , when I’ve explicitly told you to stay out of the kitchen unless I’m home to supervise.”

“I was hungry,” Q grumbled mutinously. It was barely audible over the loud roar of the vacuum cleaner.

“So you get yourself a banana. Or order in. Not fucking upend an entire sack of flour over your head.”

Q sighed, sending little puffs of flour to the ground. Bond took a minute to lament the death of his formerly spotless floor, which he’d only _just_ waxed the other day. “I wanted mug cake,” he muttered. “It’s not my fault that the bottom of the bag gave out, or that when I tried to clean it up, I slipped and hit my head on the floor.”

Bond shut off the vacuum cleaner. “You hit your head?” He felt around Q’s scalp, wincing when he found the rather large bump on it. Despite himself, he could physically feel himself softening. Injured Qs were at the top of his “protect and soothe at any cost” list. Come to think of it, he was the _only_ thing on that last.

“Just a little bit,” said Q, clearly trying to keep his dignity. A little late for that now, considering the fact that he currently resembled Frosty more than he did a human being, and that his boyfriend was currently cleaning him off with the crevice attachment of the vacuum, an angled nozzle he’d come to think of as the “Q attachment” due to how often he’s had to use it on Q.

“Poor baby, Bond cooed, narrowly dodging Q’s punch. As revenge, he stuck the nozzle in Q’s ear, smirking when Q squealed and thrashed away with all the grace of a lamprey eel. A small tousled ensued, getting powdery handprints all over Bond’s Tom Ford suit and in his hair

“At least I didn’t try to shower off again,” mused Q much later, when he looked somewhat human again, and Bond shuddered. What a disaster that was, with white globs everywhere in their pristine, gorgeous marble shower. They’d had to call a handyman when the drain inevitably clogged up. Bond still remembers the shame of that afternoon, watching the bemused man pull more and more globs of sticky dough from the pipes.

Yes, as ridiculous as Q was, this was still infinitely better than watching the wastebasket fill up with soggy lumps of dough.

 

***

 

“James, we need to have a talk,” said Q one evening, apropos of nothing.

Bond set down his novel, brows furrowed. His senses were on full alert, wondering what could possibly bring Q to use that serious tone. Was he ill? Was he being blackmailed? Was he—and this is the one that really sent cold stabs of fear through Bond’s senses. Was he tired of him?

“I know you’re hiding something from me. And before you try to explain yourself, I already know what it is.” Bond had to pause at that, because even he wasn’t aware that he had been hiding something from Q. Q had a strange little habit of rooting through drawers when he’s half awake and still delirious, and Bond had long realised that there’s no use in hiding anything from Q, whether it be Christmas presents or broken weapons.

“Oh?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual. This had to be a misunderstanding. Just in case, though, he’d stall for as long as he could while trying desperately to remember what Q could be talking about.

Q patted his hands earnestly. “I want you to know that I don’t mind, really! Everyone has their…their needs, and I know that it’s more of a biological imperative than anything to do with _us._ You don’t need to feel ashamed about it.”

Oh god. Bond felt sick to his stomach. Did Q think that he was _cheating_ on him? Bond would never—he’s never—he _loves_ Q. Even on missions, he tried to exhaust every possible method before sleeping with a target. How could Q possibly think that he was cheating on him with—who? Some leggy brunette from the nearest pub or one of the scientists at Six? “Q,” he began.

Q held out a hand. “Let me finish, please!” he sounded so sincere that Bond had to let him finish his piece, despite the hundreds of arguments clamouring on his tongue, begging Q to realise how wrong he was, how much Bond adored him, how he would never want anyone else. “I’m not judging you, I promise. As far as I’m concerned, this doesn’t change anything between us—“

“How can you say that?” Bond burst out, louder and angrier than he’d intended judging from the way Q jumped in his seat. Bad enough that Q thought he was unfaithful, but for Q to pretend that it was okay? Bond felt like the worst kind of monster. “Q, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true. I’d _never_ want anyone who wasn’t you.”

Q growled. Actually growled, like a ruffled kitten. “Don’t lie to me, Bond. I know you’re hiding them in the top kitchen cupboard.”

“In the kitchen cupboard?” Did Q think he chopped up his imaginary lovers into little bits and stashed them in with the biscuits and pasta? Bond got the uncanny feeling that he and Q were speaking entirely different languages.

“The…the porn mags?” asked Q, looking confused.

“What the fuck,” said Bond.

Q scowled. “The porn mags you keep hidden in that box of nutri-mix. I know you keep it there because there’s not a chance that I’d touch that disgusting box of wheat bits, but I saw you in the kitchen a fortnight ago, and you were flipping through a stash of magazines. And I asked you what you were doing but you hid them away before I could see so _stop acting like you don’t know what’s going on.”_

Bond felt a headache coming on. “In the nutri-mix box? But those aren’t—all I keep in there are—” he broke off, eyes widening in realisation.

And he began to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” Q hissed, eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m trying to be a supportive boyfriend, and you’re taking the piss.”

Bond shook his head, unable to get a hold of himself. “No, just, do you mean these?” He went into the kitchen and grabbed the battered cereal box, dumping its contents onto Q’s lap.

Q stared.

And stared.

“These are…?”

“Kitchen mags,” Bond agreed, whole body trembling with mirth by now. “You keep ruining my pans and I have to order new ones from the catalogue.”

“I don’t get it,” said Q, looking terribly confused, and more than a bit skeptical. “Why did you feel the need to hide these?”

 _Because double-oh agents shouldn’t have a domestic side. Because I wasn’t sure how you’d react if you knew just how much I enjoy cooking. Because it’s still easier to close myself off than to let you in, even on trivial matters like this one._ Bond didn’t say any of this. He just shrugged, self-deprecatingly.

Something told him that Q understood, however, because his eyes softened. “Well. I’ve horribly misunderstood, haven’t I?”

“It’s alright,” Bond placated, looping an arm around Q’s bony shoulders. “I thought you meant I was cheating on you, so I was unclear as well.”

Q huffed, looking a bit livelier. “As if you’d cheat on me. I’d lop off your bollocks before you finished and fry them in that oversized hot plate of yours.”

“It’s a cast-iron skil—oh, never mind,” Bond huffed. “I have no doubt that you would.”

That was not a kitchen disaster in the technical sense. But later, when Q attempted to make it up to him by ordering several “interesting looking contraptions, I’m sure a kitchenware aficionado like yourself will know what to do with them” from the catalogue, well. Bond hadn’t the heart to tell him they were all different brands of can openers.

 

***

 

He should’ve done this sooner, he knew. But the thing about Q was—and Bond was putting this delicately—he was an arrogant sod. The particular brand of self-confident associated with a lifetime of knowing he was the cleverest person in the room. The kind that public school lugs couldn’t beat out of him if they’d tried.

Somehow, he doubted they did. Try, that is. Q hardly seemed like the helpless sort, by any means.

The point was, Q didn’t appreciate it when it was implied he was anything short of brilliant. In any area. Which made teaching him to cook quite the experience.

“ _No,”_ said Bond, for what was probably the hundredth time that day. “You can’t—talcum powder is _not_ an acceptable substitute for baking powder.”

Q scowled, stirring the lumpy mixture with a tad more force than was strictly required. “Have you tried it?”

Bond stared. “Ask me if I’ve ever tried fighting on a speeding train over a tall bridge—no, never mind, that’s not a good example.”

Smug, Q dumped in an extra spoonful of sugar. It was already five spoonfuls past the amount recommended by the recipe. Bond, wisely, chose not to comment. When it came to Q, one must choose their battles wisely.

“ _The point is,”_ he continued with typical tenacity, “there are some things that you should know by instinct, and the fact that talcum powder is not edible should be one of them.”

“Bully for you,” said Q, floured tip of his nose stuck high in the air. Childishly, Bond wanted to flick him.

Rather than cling to a sinking ship, he changed the subject. “Alright, moving on, you want to make sure all the lumpy bits are out of the mixture.”

He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Q’s eyes gleamed like a predator, and James pointed a finger at him, threatening. “Make one joke about either of our bits and you’re sleeping in the spare bedroom tonight.”

“Spoilsport,” said Q, satisfied with his temporary victory. He stretched his arms, back cracking, and James took a moment to admire the flat planes of his belly as his tee shirt rode up. Nice and soft, though without a hint of pudge, soft swirls of hair snaking down into his pajama bottoms. Bond’s mouth watered.

“Mmm,” Q groaned. He settled back onto the flats of his feet, and Bond felt an unspeakably tragic pang when those dusky hairs were hidden from view again. He debated tossing Q onto the table and, cupcakes be damned, licking him all over. But Q would fuss, and besides, that wasn’t the point of this exercise. Ignorant of Bond’s hunger, Q continued blithely. “My arms are killing me. Be a dear and show me again how you get the lumps out, would you?”

Bond counted it as a point in his favour that Q kept a straight face when he said the word “lumps”. So, ever gracious, he moved around Q to grasp the spoon, hands lying on top of Q’s. He noted with a detached sort of fascination that his hands fairly swallowed Q’s whole. Gun calluses lined up against soldering calluses—lumps on lumps, he thought hysterically, chuckling to himself.

“Whenever you’re ready, old man.”

Bond cuffed him around the head, ever so gently. Delighted, Q rewarded him with a peck on the mouth. It tasted of sugar and butter.

“Ahem,” said Bond, pulling away regretfully. He took the spoon up once more. “You’ve got to fold the batter towards the sides. Make a line down the middle with the spoon, down and across. There you go.” He was very aware of the way certain parts of Q’s anatomy pressed against certain _very interested_ parts of his own anatomy. And the fact that Q was not wearing any pants.

“Down and across, down and across,” Q muttered to himself, absorbed in his task. A glob of batter landed on the corner of his mouth and he licked it up, and James will forever swear that he literally felt his cock jump for joy at the simple gesture. Oh, that wicked little tongue, so soft and pink and talented. Bond could imagine much better uses it could be put to—no, no, he had to stay strong. He would teach Q how to follow a damned cupcake recipe if he had to die to do it.

“Oh, it tastes lovely!” Q paused in his stirring to run a finger along the rim of the bowl, popping the finger in his mouth. “So sweet and light. And the cinnamon was a nice touch.”

This boy was Satan. He was every psychotic, melodramatic villain rolled up into one deceptively sweet bundle. And Bond had fallen for the act hook, line, and sinker. Worse, he couldn’t even be arsed to care.

“Pour it into the cake tin,” Bond ordered gruffly. Q paused at his tone, startled, before his gaze traveled to the tent in Bond’s trousers.

“Oh, that’s how it’s going to be?” asked Q, smiling big and bright.

“That’s how it’s going to be,” Bond confirmed, mournful.

Confessing frustration, showing weakness—Q latched onto it like a wolf onto prey. Bond could only watch in horror as Q performed what could only be described as a striptease while he poured. Hips gyrating in tandem with the swirl of the viscous batter. Green eyes met his own and Q smirked, slow as syrup, as a quick tongue flickered over his bottom lip. Turned it wet and rosy. The top button of his shirt came undone. Then a second. Bond’s hand shot out before he could undo a third.

“Into the oven, now,” he hissed. Q blinked innocently.

“Already hungry?” he asked.

Bond grunted out an affirmation, and Q laughed, the sound bubbling and loud. James stared after his swaying hips with no sense of shame. His arse was perfectly formed, soft swell barely visible in the too-big pajamas. A tease, just like the rest of him. His body thrummed with the urge to touch. To take. To claim. He put his head in his hands. Damn Q and his lack of mercy.

Q bent in half when he opened the oven door, and that was it. _That was it._ Quick as a whip, Bond was there at his back, two hands pressed firmly over the jut in his hips.

Q glanced back at him, brows furrowed in annoyance. “Excuse me, no tomfoolery near the oven, if you please!” The twinkle in his eyes gave him away. As did the way he pressed back against Bond’s erection, just once.

“And you’re hardly in a position to make demands,” Bond bit out. Although Q had a point. He slammed the oven door shut and flipped the switch in one movement, backing up a moment later and taking Q with him. Q went over the kitchen table, easy as you please, sending clouds of flour into the air.

“Oh, taking control,” Q breathed out, grinding back against him once more. “I like it.”

“Wanton,” scolded Bond, craning his neck for a kiss. Q obliged eagerly, mouth warm and soft, and Bond felt the dizzying sensation of vertigo for a moment. Like he’d fall away into nothing without Q’s lips against his.

After a few minutes of snogging, Q pushed him away. James wanted to protest, then Q tore his own pajamas down, revealing expanses of pale skin and lean muscles, downy hair and blushing cock.

Q raised an eyebrow. “Well? Get on with it.”

Bond reacted a moment too late, too distracted by the twin dimples on his back where he liked to dig his thumbs into the soft indents while they shagged. That pause was apparently too long for Q to wait, because he reached behind himself. Bond inhaled when a single finger began circling the rim of his hole.

“Now hang on,” he protested.

“You were taking too long,” said Q, not in the least bit apologetic. The nail of his middle finger slipped in, hardly a centimeter, and Bond slapped his hands away. Unable to stand anything that wasn’t himself teasing Q at the moment. Q huffed. He ignored him in favour of reaching into his pockets for the small sachet of lube he kept there for emergencies (Q was a horny little git, and Bond was far too old to keep improvising with Vaseline or olive oil.) One finger slick and glistening, and _oh hell_ , has Q always been this tight? Just a finger and Bond couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, his entire world reduced down to familiar heat and experienced muscles.

Q made that sound that’s always reminded Bond a bit of a sleepy kitten: equal parts pleased purr and demanding whine, and hell if Bond didn’t melt like the old, besotted fool he was. A perverted old, besotted fool, because the tilt of Q’s hips and the sprawl of his legs could not possibly be construed as innocent, in any context. He added a second finger.

“Enough,” Q finally gasped out, squirming in Bond’s grasp. He looked a mess, Bond noted smugly. Flour in his hair, shirt hitched up to his elbows, flushed and wanting—oh yes, Q was paying for his teasing. “Get in me, Bond. Now.”

Bond stroked down his spine with one finger, a tease he had every intention of following through. “You want this now?”

Q growled. “Have you gone deaf? _Now_ , Bond, before I lose it!” It was the same voice he used on missions, when Bond was behaving particularly recalcitrant. And oh, Bond could never pretend that voice didn’t turn him on like nothing else.

Sliding into Q was like—well, Bond would not claim to be a poet; a shag was a shag was a shag—but _Q_. Oh, Q. Their bodies joined together and it was like coming home. Bond’s fucked a lot of people in his time. For Queen and Country, for lack of anything better to do, for the sake of easing late night loneliness. He’s never had anyone that felt as familiar and welcoming as Q.

“You’re not moving quickly enough,” said Q, thrusting back against him like a well-practiced porn star.

Bond rolled his eyes. Bossy to the last.

“This better?” he asked, before slamming his hips forward with as much force as he could muster.

Q let out a small hiccup, scrabbling for purchase against the ruined countertop. “Much— _ah!_ much better.” Bond was momentarily mesmerized by the methodic pistoning of his hips, so much like the machines he designed in his labs. He placed one hand over that bony jut of bone and stroked over it, marvelling at soft skin and hard bone, so deceptively delicate under his fingertips, so addictive.

Sudden affection rushed through him. This man, this absent-minded, tetchy, destructive man with so much warmth and love inside of him. Bond wanted to spend the rest of his life with him, just like this, coming home to him every night. Vacuuming him off after he gets flour all over himself. Curled up with him in front of the fire, doing nothing more than enjoying the feeling of being together with someone you adored utterly.

And being buried balls-deep in his arse. That was pretty nice too.

He felt, rather than heard Q’s low moan as he came, and the aftershocks drove him to orgasm a few seconds later. Q shoved at him, half-heartedly, when he slumped over the younger man, but made no real attempt to shove him off.

“Err, do you smell that?” Q asked, either minutes or hours later. Bond couldn’t tell.

“Hmm?” said Bond, domestic fantasies weaving their way through his mind now that he’s opened himself to the idea. Winter was drawing near, and they could pick out new sheets together for their bed. Something dark and warm, maybe in flannel? And they could go see the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, even if Bond would probably shoot someone just to thin out the throngs of people. He might even be able to convince Q to switch to two-ply toilet paper. It’s not as if they can’t afford it, after all.

“ _Bond._ Do you. Smell that.”

Oh. They’d forgotten about the cupcakes. Bond swore, dragging himself up and yanking open the oven door, but it was far too late. Their cupcakes were reduced to nothing but black lumps, half crumbled on the ruined baking tray.

“I’m cursed,” Q lamented, staring at the remains of their work. “Everything I’ve attempted in this bloody kitchen has gone to hell. Everything.”

“The eggs weren’t that bad,” said James, trying for comforting but unable to contain his amusement.

 _“Everything,”_ Q spat. “Cooking is the worst thing that humans have thought up. As soon as I’ve the time, I’m going to invent a much more efficient way of preparing food. _Why are you laughing._ ”

Bond shook his head, staring at their ruined kitchen, the charred cupcakes, their nude lower bodies, still slick with cum. “Just appreciating the joys of domesticity.”


End file.
